A version of this poem was published earlier this year, but I was never completely happy with it. This is the redrafted version.
xxxxxxxxxthe word derives from Mesmer,
a German guy who spoke of animal magnetism,
of energy transference. Mesmer, with his swirling
pinwheel eyes that paralyse the mind and slow down
time, the swoon on the cusp of an epiphany, a dream
that’s neither good nor bad but interesting.
Standing in my lover’s light I’m caught
like a child in a doorway looking up at a giant
and his meanness dissolves as he carries me
like a tombola prize with my feet dangling
through the sky. But like so many boys, he’s rough
with his toys, and plastic can only be pushed so far
before it will snap. Yet whenever I crack
he’s always the one to come back, waving
his wine-stained peace rag, his voice casting spells
and his eyes like magnets, electrified –
and the whole thing starts again.